


We Are The Champions

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Gun Safety, M/M, Married Couple, living city
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7397812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keystone City has an arcade park, a laser tag arena, a handful of criminals and even, maybe, a superhero. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Response to tumblr prompt asking for a story based on: Coldwave as the longstanding laser tag champions of keystone arcade</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are The Champions

**Author's Note:**

> I believe you can find the original post here: http://horchatita.tumblr.com/post/144134944235/little-known-fact-since-they-were-teenagers-len

There are a lot of abandoned or mostly abandoned buildings in downtown Keystone. 

Keystone’s not quite as bustling as its neighbor city, Central, but then again, it also doesn’t have quite the same magnitude of organized crime. Keystone has long since resigned itself to being the less glittery of the Twin Cities, the lesser Gem in the crown; its long reliance on industry giving it more of a gritty feel, with smog choking the air and unrepaired streets grinding to gravel beneath its millions of citizens going to work every day. Keystone suffered pretty badly from the flight to the suburbs, the decline of manufacturing, and never quite got back on its feet, not when Central was just across the way: a flashier, harder city, with more dangers but also more reward. 

The people who live in Keystone like it, though. 

Sure, they don’t have the public transportation infrastructure that Central has, thanks to some short-sighted politician a century ago who was more interested in bulking up the car-making industry’s investment in the city than in prepping for the future, but the mothers who do live there like to point out that at least their kids can walk home through the streets without running into too much trouble. You can’t do that in Central, they sniff, land of rampant drug use and murders and mobsters and crooked cops. The cops in Keystone are pretty crooked too, but the big players never saw much point in bribing them with all that much, so they’re a lot more willing to accept offers of baked goods and the freshest pot of coffee in exchange for overlooking some of the more minor infractions in the neighborhood. What gets a black eye in Keystone, gets a black car in Central, people sometimes say, only half-joking.

The food’s fresher in Keystone, with its farms teeming so close to the city borders that the idea of nature reclaiming its bastard asphalt child isn’t entirely unthinkable; they don’t have as much variety in their cuisine as Central does, fewer Chinese take-out joints or Indian curry houses, but damn if their pizza isn’t very nearly as fresh as what you can get in Italy.

Central has better coffee, though. People are still pretty sore about that.

There’s a bunch of old warehouse-sized buildings down in the south bend, in the part of old downtown that some well-meaning politician in the late seventies or mid-eighties decided to eminent domain into a brand new entertainment district that would, he boasted, bring people flooding back into Keystone. It worked for a while, churning up new shops by adventurous entrepreneurs, but then the oil crisis hit, or maybe the buy-back crisis, no one’s quite sure anymore, and it all petered out. Economic development, insofar as it was happening anymore, had all moved back over to the riverfront, by the long bridge to Central as real-estate-hungry developers from Central tried to spruce it up into something they could sell as a nice, cozy development for commuters from Central – never mind the grime and the grit and the poverty happening a few miles further inland.

(There were protests when it happened, of course; money is money, no one’s denying that, but Keystone’s got too much pride to let itself become the next Brooklyn. Politicians with Central money in their pockets and the Keystone machine behind them tried to appease the populace with toothy smiles and pretty words about the long-promised, never-delivered economic revival, but Keystone shook off its endless apathetic slumber just long enough to kick them all out. Twin Cities or nothing, they said; we’re no borough or suburb. We’ve got our dignity. Some key initial portion of the project eventually failed, like most long-term infrastructure Keystone projects have a tendency to, and Keystone promptly went back to voting in the same old bastards as last time, much to the disappointment of the handful of activists involved.)

In that entertainment district, there are only a few buildings still up and running regularly; the movie theater’s been closed for ages and might be currently serving as an unlicensed soup kitchen, the actual theater only yawningly opens for productions once in a blue moon when some theater troupe sees the cut-rate prices and can’t resist, and the less said about the former ice-skating rink, the better. (The old Zamboni’s become more of a favorite statute for kids to climb on or rub for good luck than some of the actual city installations, and that’s all you need to know.)

There is one exception. The arcade – as out of date as it is, with game machines that run on quarters and which haven’t been serviced by official technicians in decades, games like Pac Man and Joust still having pride of place next to the (relatively) newer fighting games like Street Fighter or first person shooter games based on the Terminator movies, and a big room reserved for laser tag next door to the bowling alley and right down the hall from the room with the skeeball and the air hockey tables – is still as active as it ever has been. You’ll find kids and teens of all ages and ethnicities hanging out there, lining up to play the crane games, getting rowdy by the whac-a-mole station, or cheering on some new champion killing it at Street Fighter vs. Super Heroes, though ever since the Particle Accelerator explosion over in Central, kids have taken to using the seated area right next to that game as a debating corner as to if there would ever be a need for one of Central City’s metas to dress up in an American flag or possibly as some variety of cat.

The arcade park itself is in surprisingly good shape. Repairs get done on time to keep the wear and tear of the decades at bay, the taxes have been paid on the building through at least the next decade, the politicians all turn a blind eye to an area that they might’ve otherwise described as a blight. It’s in a nowhere area, a half-finished embarrassment, so it’s easy enough for it to go unnoticed. The police don’t go there unless they’re called, and they’re almost never called. Kids will get on a bus or walk half the city over to come hang out there after school. 

The bowling alley sometimes gets turns into a rave late at night, but the organizers have gotten surprisingly good at picking up after themselves and their dance parties after they got a few late-night visits from intimidating men who threatened to ban them for and also possibly to remove their dancing feet if they didn’t make sure it was appropriate for kids to use the next day. 

The laser tag arena is particularly special, though. 

It’s got a robust schedule of different games, ranging from Capture the Flag to traditional team vs. team style play. It runs tournaments. It’s got video screens next to a large seated area with tables where kids who are waiting for their turn or who just want to watch the action go sit with some food and soda to cheer on their favorites. There’s a hall of fame board with a list of champions that hasn’t changed in decades, though sometimes a new name will creep onto the list if someone can demonstrate the appropriate level of game domination over long enough time to earn a spot. 

More importantly – and this is everyone’s favorite part – sometimes the screens outside will go black and the bowling alley next door will close, and a sign will be hung outside the laser tag area advertising simply “Lessons.” There’s a sign-up sheet with dates and times and everyone who can fights over the available spots on it, though no one ever dares to sign up for the slots reserved for newbies – one of the teachers, an old laser tag champion whose reign is still going strong, is said to have a perfect memory and everyone knows you need special permission to take a newbie class twice. 

Everyone knows about it, kids and parents alike, but no one says anything – certainly not about the slim man with the harsh downtown Central City accent who sometimes leaves a gun that glows blue leaning by the entrance that everyone gives a wide berth to, not about the broad-shouldered man with the burn scars and a familiar cadence that can still be found on any of Keystone’s many surrounding farms, not about the beautiful woman whose hands and neck sparkle gold but who is never robbed. There are other teachers, sometimes, but those are the main three that come by. Mostly they come by to teach lessons, but sometimes when there’s been a new champion who’s gotten their name on the hall of fame board that’s getting a bit too cocky, they’ll show up like vengeful ghosts in the night and crush him under their bootheels, smiling all the while. 

When the police ask questions – never the local police, who know better, but sometimes the busybodies from the FBI or Central City who like to stick their noses where they doesn’t belong – all the kids that frequent the arcade, young and old and sometimes with kids of their own now because age is just a number and what matters is what’s in your brain, will truthfully report that the lessons are conducted by the undefeated champions of the Keystone City Adventure & Arcade park laser tag arena. 

Any details other than that, unfortunately, they are sad to say they cannot recall. 

\---------------------------

“Oh my god, Mr. Flash, are you all right?” the girl – who looked maybe twelve, at oldest – blurted out, looking in a horrified sort of way at where Barry was sprawled out on the ground from where he’d been thrown through the wall, blinking a little in confusion.

The confusion, he felt, was warranted – he was pretty used to getting thrown at, into or through walls by this point, but he was a little less accustomed to a group of the hostages the bad guy had been keeping, a whole school bus full of children coming from Keystone to visit the Central City Natural History Museum, all swarming together to knock out the guy who’d been left to guard them, pulling out his gun, and one of them crisply shooting the main villain’s weapon right out of his hand before effectively disarming the gun and tossing it to the side.

It was practically professional. The bit right after, where she immediately started burbling over how Barry was doing, was a little less so.

“I’m good,” he told her. “Don’t worry – let me just check in on Matthews…”

Geoffrey Matthews, formerly a clock shop repairman with a history of domestic violence and anger management issues and now currently a literally time-bomb of rage that ticked down into sporadic explosions (Barry didn’t even _want_ to know what Cisco was going to call this guy), was mostly stunned by the bullets and the sudden absence of his over-sized weapon, which had misfired when hit and had impacted into his…metallic…armor…thing…

Man, bad guys are _so weird_ sometimes. Can he go back to when the worst thing he was dealing with was a guy that fired lasers out of his eyes? Or maybe that shark guy again? And Matthews wasn’t even a meta, just a crazy person with an even crazier theme. 

Barry shook his head. 

He zipped over and tied Matthews up, removing his exploding tech and the pieces of his armor that looked dangerous, and putting him aside for the CCPD to pick up. By the time he’d come back to the kids, they’d already done much the same with the minion that the girl had grabbed the gun from in the first place. Barry grabbed him and put him in a pile with Matthews, then did a sweep for any other lingering minions before returning to the group of kids.

“You don’t still have any guns, right?” he asks cautiously. 

They all give him identical horrified looks. “No, sir!” the girl who’d done the (better than Barry’s) shooting. “You never keep hold of a gun any longer than it takes to do the job, then you make sure it’s disarmed and in safe place where no one can get ahold of it by accident.”

She sounded like she was quoting something, probably lessons from wherever she’d learned to shoot like that. 

“You did a great job,” Barry praises her and she beams. “Where are the guns now?”

The kids all point to a pile of very efficiently disarmed guns, all of them partially dismantled. 

“Wow,” Cisco’s voice buzzes in his ear. “Epic sharpshooting kid _and_ can take apart eight guns in the same time it takes you to clean up a bad guy. Barry, have you considered a sidekick?”

“Not a twelve year old!” Barry hisses into his comm, then turns a smile onto the kids. “Where’s the…um…was there an adult with you?”

They nod. “Ms. Kelsey,” a boy offers. “She’s our teacher. She fainted.”

“The bus driver was in on it with them,” the girl offered. “He’s the guy you just put in the pile.”

“Uh, okay then. Is anyone hurt?”

Heads shake all around.

“You’re all handling this very well,” Barry says. He’s used to a bit more screaming at this point, honestly.

“First rule of being under attack, _don’t panic_ ,” the kids all chorus at him, beaming grins on their face. 

Barry blinks. 

“They’re so cute!” Cisco coos into his ear. “I want to adopt them all! I want them all to have little superhero names – ouch, Caitlin! I was kidding! Obviously! Stop hitting me!”

“That’s great,” he says enthusiastically, recovering a bit. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Laser tag,” one of the younger-looking kids says. One of the other kids elbows him in the side, to which he hisses back, “But it’s the _Flash_.”

“…what’s that?”

“Laser tag! You know, it’s a game where you can sign up to –”

“I know what laser tag is,” Barry says hastily before he gets the full explanation. “But what exactly did you learn playing laser tag?”

The girl who’d done the rescuing holds up a finger. “How to deal with being attacked.” A second finger. “Gun safety.” A third finger. “How to shoot properly.”

“Wait, you learned how to shoot playing _laser tag_?”

Nods all around.

“How many of you know how to handle a gun?”

All the hands go up.

“…handguns only, or rifles too?” Barry asks, too fascinated to be able to stop himself.

“Mostly handguns and air rifles, for shooting,” the girl tells him proudly. “We’re not allowed to even touch anything higher grade than that till we’ve passed the test on how to disarm everything, and even then only after you’ve turned at least fifteen or have a really good reason for it. It’s only supposed to be in self-defense, you know, and the little kids aren’t allowed shooting lessons at _all_ , not even with fakes, just disarming and safety checks.”

“That’s really cool,” Barry says. “Like, really, unbelievably cool. But should you really be learning how to handle a gun at your age?”

“If you don’t know what it is or how to use it, the likelihood of you getting injured by it is higher,” one of the boys recites, then looked at Barry with a disappointed expression. “Don’t you know how to deal with guns?”

“Sure I do,” Barry says automatically – it was practically required, with Joe as a dad.

The girl folds her arms. “And how long has it been since you’ve had a refresher course?”

“Um…”

This was _not_ how most rescues went. 

\-----------------------------

“What’re you doing in Keystone, Barry?” a voice drawls in his ear.

Barry jumps a foot into the air before turning around to see Leonard Snart, dressed in civies, smirking at him. “What are _you_ doing here?” he asks.

“I asked first,” Snart replies, because he’s a child like that.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Ditto, then.”

They stare at each other in silence. Snart’s wearing a pair of black jeans, a black shirt and jacket, plus a pair of black gloves. 

“Are you _stealing something_?” Barry asks, aghast.

Snart takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing. “Well, Scarlet,” he says mock-solemnly. “It is my day job, and you only ever said you’d try to stop me in Central.”

While Barry is still spluttering and trying to think of a response – in fairness, he doesn’t really go much outside of Central, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try to stop something if he actually sees it happening or about to happen and if Snart’s interpreting their little deal that way he’s not sure what to do about it – Snart continues, “As it happens, however, I am not.”

Barry deflates a bit. “Oh,” he says. “I mean, your outfit…”

“I regularly rob places while wearing a bright blue parka and you’re well aware of this,” Snart says, clearly vastly amused by the way this conversation is going. “You really need to work on your stereotypes of what thieves wear.”

“So you’re in an all-black ensemble for fun?” Barry says doubtfully.

“Nah,” Snart says. “I’ve got some serious business to attend to, and wearing black is helpful.”

“And that business _isn’t_ theft?” Barry asks. “What’s left over for black clothing? Murder? Going to a funeral?”

“What would you do if I _did_ say funeral?” Snart muses. “It’d probably be hilarious. But no again. You can keep guessing, Barry, but until you tell me why _you’re_ here, looking like a lost little lamb, I’m under no obligation to tell you why _I’m_ here.”

Barry sighs. Might as well ask. 

“I’m looking for the Keystone laser tag arena,” he confesses. “I got the address from the online yellow pages because apparently this place doesn’t have its own website and Google Maps is basically worthless, but it brought me here, but there’s nothing here.” He waves at the drab series of endless, dusty warehouses. “So unless it’s some sort of hipster thing…”

Snart is laughing again.

“What’s so funny?” Barry asks, crossing his arms in front of him defensively.

“What address did you get?”

“370 Route 111 East,” Barry recites.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Snart says. “You realize this here is 370 Route 111 _West_ , right?”

Barry gapes, looks at the map on his phone, and blushes.

“So there’s no laser tag arena here. There is, however, a damn fine sandwich shop in this area,” Snart says. “One that we happen to be standing right behind, as it happens. Lucky me.” 

Before Barry can come out with an adequate response, a gruff voice calls out “Why’re you dawdling out here like a moron, Snart?” as Mick Rory turns the corner, holding what appears to be a bag filled with sandwiches.

They do smell kinda good.

Rory blinks at Barry. “Who’s this?” he asks suspiciously. Contrary to what Barry would have supposed, he is _not_ wearing all black, opting instead for a pair of dark green cargo pants and a white shirt. 

“This is Barry Allen,” Snart tells him. “He’s looking for the laser tag arena.”

Barry is being given a sad, pitying, kind-of-judging-your-intelligence-right-now look by _Heatwave_. How has his life come to this?

“You do know it’s in the other direction, right?” Rory says.

“So I was just informed,” Barry replies, sighing. 

“Well, we’re also going there,” Rory says, ignoring Snart’s abrupt look of alarm. “You can ride with us if you like.”

“ _You’re_ going to the laser tag arena?” Barry says, astonished. 

Rory smirks. “Reigning champions for going on two, three decades,” he boasts. “C’mon, Snart; if you kill any more time, we’re gonna be late.”

“Like you even know what late means,” Snart replies automatically.

“Don’t start that again.”

“ _You_ were the one who insisted we stop and get sandwiches.”

“And you’ll be happy for them later,” Rory says, then looks at Barry. “You coming?”

“Sure,” Barry says automatically, then desperately wants to take it back. “Wait, you’re not in your motorcycles, are you?”

“Relax, normal car,” Snart says.

“Do we _know_ you?” Rory asks.

Snart glances at Barry. Barry glances at Snart.

“Oh,” Rory says. “So you’re the Flash. Got it. Want to just meet us there, then? Or give us a ride?”

“Wait, how – did you figure – wait, from – _what_? Snart, you wouldn’t even tell your _sister_!”

Snart pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh? Then how did me asking about your _motorcycles_ give it up?” Barry says indignantly. “That’s – that’s _totally unrelated_!”

“First rule, Scarlet,” Snart sighs. “If someone accuses you of something, start by looking at them like they’re crazy for a minute, then deny it. Only when you’re done with that should you move into the ‘how’d you figure it out’ questions.”

“Besides, it wasn’t you,” Rory interjects. “I figured it out from Snart.”

“He still didn’t have to admit to it,” Snart says mulishly. 

“Thanks for the lesson in lying,” Barry says, rolling his eyes. “But seriously, how’d you figure it out?”

“Snart,” Rory says, like that explained anything.

“How’d you figure it out from him, then?”

“Get us to the laser tag arena and I’ll tell you.”

“I can’t,” Barry admits. “If I’m in normal clothing and I run too fast, it has a bit of a tendency to light on fire.”

Rory looks intrigued.

Snart’s gone back to amused. “Did you forget who you’re talking to?” he drawls. “Mick, now we _are_ going to be late if we don’t leave. Barry – come with us or don’t, up to you.”

Barry follows them. Mostly out of bemused curiosity. Cold and Heatwave were acting absolutely nothing like their usual selves – more relaxed, for one thing, and Heatwave even seemed fairly calm. And they bitched at each other more than he and Cisco did!

Weirdly discomfited by this little glimpse of his villains as people, he doesn’t actually notice that he’s climbed into the car with them until he’s already there. That’s when he realizes it’s probably a bad idea.

Luckily, Rory and Snart – who are now arguing about sandwich flavors, of all things – don’t seem to have noticed it either. They drive to the arcade and park outside. Barry climbs out quickly, though not with super-speed. 

“So, uh, now that we’re here, how _did_ you figure it out?”

Rory shrugs. “Dunno. Snart did a thing with his shoulders and then it was obvious all of a sudden. Heard it happens after a while when you get hitched.”

Barry stops right where he is. “Wait, you’re _married_?”

“Nearly twelve years,” Snart reports with a smirk. “Probably should re-do it in state sometime, though, now that it’s legal.”

“Which state?” Rory jeers, crossing his arms. “Central or Keystone?”

“We’d probably get arrested if we did it in Central,” Snart says regretfully. “Though not for actually doing something illegal, which is a first.”

Cisco is not going to _believe_ this, Barry thinks gleefully.

“Hey, Barry,” Snart suddenly says, turning to him. “Why _are_ you at our arcade, anyhow?”

Barry raises his eyebrows. “ _Your_ arcade?”

“Close enough,” Rory grunts.

“Oh, I just wanted to see who was giving lessons in…” Barry trails off, staring thoughtfully at the two criminals – both extremely well-versed in the use and dangers of weaponry and at least one of which Barry knew for a fact had a big giant soft spot of goodness in him – in front of him. “…guns. It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Not tonight it’s not,” Rory says with a savage grin. “Tonight’s just laser tag.”

“Wait, you’re _actually_ going to play laser tag?” Barry asks.

“What part of ‘reigning champions’ did you miss?” Snart drawls, smirking. 

Barry shakes his head in amusement. “I can’t believe you play laser tag in your free time,” he marvels.

“Eh, the kids like a show,” Snart says airily. Then his smirk widens. “Barry, have _you_ ever played laser tag?”

“Not since I was a kid,” Barry says, frowning a bit at the mischievous tone Snart’s adopted. “Why?”

“It _is_ a game of skill and aim and planning,” Snart says. “Speed’s not all that, you know. Limited space to maneuver.”

Barry’s eyes narrow.

“Bet we could beat you,” Rory says bluntly.

“You’re _so_ on. Next week, same time, costumes on?”

Snart and Rory both grin. “Looking forward to kicking your ass,” Rory says cheerfully.

“Pride before the fall, Heatwave,” Barry says, rolling his shoulders with a grin of his own. “Just you wait.”

\------------------------------

Keystone's got plenty to be proud of, even aside from comparisons to its glittering neighbor. 

Trees, for one thing. Their air may be rusty and smoggy, but if there's one thing the general aura of governmental infrastructural neglect has done right, it's that it hasn't enforced as hard against the encroaching trees as it might have otherwise. Empty lots have been vacant so long that tentative green sprouts have turned into moderately thick trees unfurling branches wide enough to provide shelter. The trees that break through the sidewalk are often cultivated by kids on their way to work, watered and hung with ribbons. Sometimes a neighborhood will get together and start a park or a garden, and everyone will pretend it's always been there - neighborhood parents and merchants, kids and cops.

A lot of things happen like that in Keystone. Shops that open their doors and keep trucking on will find themselves welcomed as neighborhood staples within a handful of years. Have a lemonade stand starting each April 5th for two years running and you'll have a row of people knocking on your door to inquire as to your health if you skip out on year three. There are politicians that have been there so long that people are only partially joking when they ask if Keystone Water Tower will collapse when they retire, for lack of someone to keep holding it up. 

That's absurd, of course. The politicians will never retire.

No one ever says anything about the way crowds form at the laser tag arena once every few months, or how a sign appears a week or so in advance with nothing more than a date and the word “Showdown.” The politicians continue along their way in blissful ignorance, the cops don’t come by – not unless they’re dressed in civies and carting their families along, anyway. The kids love it, but are happy to obey the rules – if you get in once, you have to leave your spot open for other kids to go to the next few times.

One of the players is said to have a perfect memory and everyone knows that these shows are for everyone to watch, not just the bigger kids who can push their way to the front or the ones with the time to get there early.

The competition is tempered by the fact that a cheerful man with hair that brushes his shoulders showed up one day and installed something that streamed what was on the ancient screens outside the arena onto a password-protected website, and the password is scribbled on the walls of every elementary, middle, and high school in city limits. The technology that downloads and projects the streaming, which only stirs to life when there’s a showdown and no other time and can be disabled with vocal command in case something goes wrong, is probably worth more than the entire building that it’s in. 

No one touches it.

The streets are still dirty; there’s still crime; there’s still a pervading feeling of decay.

But Keystone breathes easier for the first time in two years, since a flash of light mushroomed up from the very heart of Central and split the night, rolling its poisonous aura out in an exorable wave that caught the people its wake. Central – the beautiful, gleaming, wicked Twin – had finally shared its bounty; the flicker of lightning flashed through now their streets, too, stopping the little crimes and striking heart into the hearts of those who were ambitious for more. 

There’s a special place by the back door to the laser tag arena where certain people come and loiter, eyes cast down and uncomfortable, hands twisting in their clothing; and one player or another will draw them aside and talk with them about things they might want to do. A few of them follow the man with the smirk and the terrible puns – a man with eyes that reflect the world back out again and hands that touch the world around him like he’s not sure it’s real, a woman with long legs and broken toes that can spin so fast the wind shuddered around her shoulders like a cloak – while others trail after the taller, leaner man with a quick smile and serious eyes, like the man whose hands hung too low by his sides and who seemed too tall for his bones, his wife clutching his hand in his hers. 

Some enterprising soul kicks off a line of Keystone-made knock-off superhero merchandise, toys and costumes and even big foam hands, under the hope that they become popular in Keystone at last, where before they were shrugged off by a tired populace. It gets a bit of traction. Lightning strikes and snowflakes and, most especially, little flames get carved into trees in every park as each neighborhood claims a favorite. 

The superhero arguments in the seating area by the video games continue, but now there’s an extra taste to them, a new energy, and one indisputable fact, unknown to the citizens of Central City: Keystone’s champions continue their long reign unabated and undefeated.

Keystone smiles.


End file.
